


Of Cold Making Warmth

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-11
Updated: 2006-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:37:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John went to war, and left someone behind him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Cold Making Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> For Cate.

It's summer in New Mexico by the time they demobilise John's unit, letting him go with the usual measure of thanks for services rendered to his country, and an unusual measure of indifference. A full New Mexico summer, dry heat lying heavy over scorched earth, a heat intense enough that it should be oppressive, even for someone raised in it. But John doesn't think so. It's not leaden, not humid, and when he pushes through it, it doesn't make John think of days and months with jungle breathing damp heat around him and above him. It's dry and it's clean, and when he steps out of the battered Ford that's taken him across two states, and pauses to stretch tired muscles in the parking lot, the air burns the back of his throat. John breathes in deep.

It's barely any cooler inside the hotel's lobby. The potted plants on the reception desk are wilting, and the clerk behind the desk is drooping under the weight of boredom and a too-tight suit. He's flicking through a magazine, tapping fingers idly along with the newest Tommy Dorsey hit on the radio, but perks up when he sees John's Air Corps uniform and the duffel slung over his shoulder. He gives him the room number with so many smiles and 'yes sirs, no sirs, certainly sirs', so many deferential looks from a man old enough to be his father, that John can feel cold sweat break out on his back, can feel it prickle as it dries along his spine.

John lets a half-smile take the place of any answer he might want to make, and heads down the corridor and up the stairs until he reaches room 720. He pauses for a moment, one hand on the door handle, and steadies himself: because he's a day early, because it's been three years since he signed up, and because he's not even sure what he can let himself expect anymore. He doesn't knock; just takes a deep breath and lets himself in, lets his bag drop inside the door, and closes it behind him.

The room itself is quiet, anonymous. John wasn't expecting anything fancy; but this room, it could be anywhere from Los Angeles to New York, a nondescript room like a dozen others John has lived in and slept in and fucked in over the years. Cream walls and bare floorboards. Chest of drawers, bedside table, double bed; all mahogany, all scuffed, all polished with a care such cheap furniture doesn't deserve.

The only difference from all of those rooms, the most important and the best and the one John is looking for, is the man sleeping on the bed. Rodney, sprawled halfway on his stomach, face pressed into one pillow and right leg propped up on the other, brow furrowed with all the intense concentration that sleep always seems to require from him. A deep sleep, even at three in the afternoon; John had expected to find him awake, but finds, unexpectedly, that he doesn't mind this; not this quiet Rodney, waiting for him. John sits down on the edge of the bed, curls one hand around the fine bones of Rodney's ankle, and says "Surprise."

Rodney doesn't wake.

_No surprise there_, John thinks to himself. Even when they were kids together, a couple of states away and two decades ago, he remembers it taking all the force of Mrs McKay's wrath to get her son out of bed in the mornings, remembers a shorter, skinnier boy rubbing sleep and strands of blond hair out of his eyes.

He leans forward and whispers "Rodney" into his ear, grinning when Rodney just burrows further into the pillow. John leans closer still, until his lips almost brush Rodney's ear.

"Rodney," he whispers again; then much, much louder, in something as close to a hoarse Canadian accent as he can muster, "Meredith Rodney McKay, if you don't get your lazy self out of bed this instant, you will be late for school again!"

And that's it, Rodney's eyes fly open and he's pushing himself up off the bed, mumbling "Sorry, sorry, I'm coming," vowels blurred and sleep-thick. John watches as he comes fully awake, blinking once, twice, as he looks around the room, sees John—and there's that smile that John remembers, broad and brilliant. "John," Rodney says, and his smile grows impossibly brighter, "You're not supposed to get here til tomorrow."

John quirks an eyebrow. "Would you prefer if I went back to Albuquerque, came back in the morning? The truck's right outside."

"Ha, very amusing," Rodney says, "Glad to see that a couple of years surrounded by the finest Neanderthals the army can draft hasn't dulled that scintillating wit of yours."

"It's nice to see you, too," John says.

"Hmph," Rodney says, pulling himself around so that he is sitting facing John. They look at one another in silence—stare, if John is going to be honest with himself—for a little longer than they should, before Rodney clears his throat and looks away. "Yes, well, I'd be a lot happier to see you if you took advantage of those wonderful modern inventions we refer to as 'soap' and 'hot water' once in a while."

"Oh, you know me," John says, unperturbed, "Never could keep up with all those complex concepts you scientists are so fond of. Besides, I'd like to see you spend a couple of days in a transport with six hundred seasick men and then travel across a half dozen states."

"Spare me the sob story, Sheppard. I don't care about the _why_, I only care about the _smell_."

"It's _manly_ sweat," John says, with as much pride as he can force into his voice.

Rodney's mouth twists sideways. "Yes, well, regardless of the potent masculinity of your bodily secretions, you stink and I, I am hungry. You are going to wash up and then you"—he pokes John in the shoulder—"you are going to get us food. I haven't eaten since lunch."

"It's barely three thirty!" John says.

"Waiting for you takes up a lot of energy."

"You mean _sleeping_ takes up a lot of energy," John replies. He knows the grin on his face must be particularly dopey, but he can't bring himself to care.

"No, you idiot, I mean waiting for you." He gestures down at his leg. "With this, you know, it's not like I can traipse around every backwater in Asia making sure you don't get yourself killed."

"I heard," John says, feeling the smile fade from his face. "I was worried." He reaches out and places one hand on Rodney's knee, as if he can feel the twist and snarl of scar tissue and damaged muscle through the cloth of his trousers.

Rodney gives him a smile that's tentative, a little wobbly, even though his words are confident. "Oh, it's nothing to worry about. It was months ago, anyway. Beckett just had me on the happy pills for a while, I was able to keep up with my work from the hospital, and luckily I am _very_ good at bed rest."

"Me, too," John smirks, waggling his eyebrows before falling back to lie across the bed, heavily enough that the bed frame shakes a little.

"Yes," Rodney says, mouth twisting a little, "you did acquire enough of a reputation back home to convince me of that. You know Mrs Anderson still refers to you _thankfully_ as the one that Maria let get away? And that's before we even get to the ones who are _still_ hoping that—"

"Rodney," John says.

"—not to mention the fact that you're a genuine, certified war hero now," Rodney continues, as if he hasn't heard him, "Won't have to pay for anything for, oh, weeks, when you get back to Hicksville. Just mention Iwo Jima. And then if you flash your medals and show them you've not picked up any war wounds that make them feel _uncomfortable_,"—his hands curl into the fabric of his trousers—"you'll be handed the prettiest girl in town on a silver platter—"

"Rodney," John says.

"—and you'll settle back down on the family farm, settle back in, same as always and everything will, it'll be—" Rodney points at John's hands, at the gun calluses and the tiny scars and the fine bones of the wrist. "You even have dirt under your fingernails," he says. "Same as always. You'll make a good farmer."

_"Rodney_," John says again, softly, nudging Rodney's side with his elbow until Rodney looks down at him. Whatever he sees in John's face is enough to quiet him, and the expression on his face relaxes a little.

"I thought you were going to get me food," Rodney says finally.

"You thought wrong," John says, but he's already hauling himself back up off the mattress and heading for the door. Downstairs, he asks the guy behind the desk for directions to the nearest town off the highway and the name of the best diner that the place affords. It doesn't turn out to be a very good diner at all, but they're quick and they're cheap, and Rodney makes no complaints when John hands the food over to him, digging into the fried chicken like it's the best thing he's ever tasted.

John manages barely half of his own plate, stomach still unsettled from travel, and he wipes the grease from his mouth with a napkin before throwing most of it into the trash. Rodney's still eating, however, with the kind of single-minded defiance of table-manners that both repulses John, and fascinates his inner twelve-year-old.

"Want some?" Rodney says, holding out the paper plate to John.

"No, thanks, I'm good. Honest," John says. He might have spent his time in the Philippines training his body to eat whatever was put in front of him, but even his stomach rebels at the kind of things Rodney will gladly eat, and the quantities he can put away.

"Still seasick?" Rodney asks sympathetically, around a mouthful of dumplings.

"Sure," John says.

There's silence while Rodney finishes his food, silence after he has finished. They sit side by side on the bed, quiet in a way that's not quite awkward, but not quite comfortable, either. Rodney fidgets with his now empty hands. The only noise in the room is that which floats in through the open window—a woman's voice drifting up from the parking lot, singing out of key (_Give me five minutes more, only five minutes more_); the breeze in the tree tops; the distant, infrequent traffic on the highway.

Eventually, John says, "Maybe, maybe I should go wash up, there's a washroom down the hall—" but before he can push himself off the bed, Rodney says "_John_" and turns, wrapping his arms around John, burying his face in the crook of John's neck.

"Hey, buddy," John says quietly, because it's been three years for him too, three long years, and he brings one hand up to cup the nape of Rodney's neck, run his thumb through the short, fine hairs there.

"Just give me, give me a minute, okay?" Rodney says, shakily, words mumbled into John's skin.

"Sure," John says, "sure," and he holds onto Rodney as the minute turns into two, turns into five, Rodney's body warm against his while the woman's voice in the parking lot below them fades away and the breeze picks up in the tree tops outside.

John can never explain how they both know to turn at the same time, whether it's a shift in Rodney's breathing, or a quickening of his pulse, or something else, indefinable and _theirs_ that makes Rodney raise his head just as John lowers his.

It's not quite like John remembered it, all those days away by himself. He'd thought of this so often, as a comfort — the curl of Rodney's tongue against his, the sounds that Rodney makes in the back of his throat, the rasp of stubble under his tongue, all the things they'd learned together as teenagers, before the war — that the memories had been filed smooth for him, edges worn away like a piece of sea glass in the ocean, treasures to be turned over and over in his mind as easily as his fingers would a worry-bead.

He'd forgotten all the things a kiss could mean with Rodney, how it could be comfort of a different sort; this is comfort and desperation and need, the wanting to remember and the willingness to forget all at once; a reminder that while John was waiting for Rodney, Rodney was waiting for him. Rodney's hands clutch convulsively where they rest on John's hips, and his mouth is insistent and urgent, teeth worrying at John's lower lip.

Rodney tugs at him, pulling him forward, and John goes willingly, shifting until Rodney is lying on the bed and John is resting on top of him. The metal clasp of Rodney's suspenders digs uncomfortably into John's stomach, Rodney's hands are still digging into his hips almost tight enough to bruise, and it's all even better than John remembered it.

"Hi," he says, looking down at Rodney, fighting back a grin. "I take it this means you don't want me to shower just yet? You can put up with my manly odour for a little while longer?"

Rodney just rolls his eyes and says "Shut up" and "Naked" and "_Now_, John," his hands already pushing the suspenders from John's shoulders and pulling apart the buttons on John's shirt, while John is wriggling out of his trousers.

"Pushy, pushy," John says, but he's missed Rodney's impatience, his always-urgent need, and he's laughing as he says it. Rodney breathes in his laughter, kissing him with a mouth that's swollen and smiling, stripping him of his clothes, running a hand down the small of John's back, urging him closer.

John settles his weight between Rodney's legs, into the cradle of Rodney's hips, hissing with pleasure at the pressure and the warmth, letting his hips grind down instinctively. Rodney hisses too, and John's so caught up in the _right_ feeling of it all, the whisper and scratch of cloth against his swiftly hardening cock, that it takes him a moment to realise that the noise Rodney was making was one of pain, not pleasure, and that Rodney is holding his injured leg stiffly.

"Rodney?"

"It's nothing," Rodney insists, "nothing," trying to stop John from unbuttoning his trousers and pulling them down and off. John's got the advantage of position, though, the experience of three years of roughhousing with Mitch and Dex, and nearly a lifetime spent wheedling Rodney around to doing what he wants to do.

After a brief struggle, Rodney gives in, lifts his hips, and lets John pull the trousers off. John tosses the clothing to the floor, then climbs his way back up Rodney's body, moving Rodney's leg slightly so that he can get a better view.

"What is—_Jesus_, Rodney."

Rodney had written, told John about it—the explosion, the shrapnel, the injury to his leg that luckily wasn't too severe for even Carson's hackery to deal with, how difficult it was to successfully run a series of ground-breaking experiments when flat on your back in the base hospital with a broken leg.

He hadn't told him it was this bad. John's seen enough injuries over the past couple of years, enough friends maimed and killed to know that Rodney must have come damn close to losing his leg, even with someone as good as Carson Beckett operating.

The scar runs from just above the kneecap almost to Rodney's hip, curling around the side and back of Rodney's thigh. It's red and puckered and ugly looking, a seam pulling together damaged skin over the place where muscle and sinew used to be. John reaches out and touches it, runs fingers rough with gun calluses over skin that sense-memory tells him should be smooth, and ignores the way Rodney flinches a little at his touch.

"You didn't tell me." John knows that even to his own ears, his voice sounds flat.

"I did!" Rodney says, indignant. "I distinctly recall doing so, because I had to battle with the censor office to be allowed to tell you even that much about the equations I was working on, and you would not believe what that harridan told me—"

"You didn't _tell_ me," John says, still running one hand the length of Rodney's thigh over and over.

"Yes," Rodney says, shifting his weight beneath John, pulling himself up a little so that's he's resting on his elbows. "Well, you were far away and fighting an _actual_ war where people are dying, as opposed to just, you know, engaging in guerrilla warfare with Kavanagh over theoretical physics which, well, it may _actually_ one day result in people dying—"

"Or people almost having their legs severed by pieces of shrapnel," John says, flatly.

"Yes, um. Well," Rodney says, and John doesn't have to look up at Rodney's face to know the kind of expression which most likely accompanies such a rare bout of incoherence. "And also it's possible that I knew you would react like this, and I would rather not have to face any more remonstrations for something which was clearly, _clearly_ not my fault, as I have explained to Dr Weir over and over, no-one got hurt, the data was saved, and it's not like my leg is vital to anything _anyway_. And it doesn't. It doesn't hurt so much, anymore."

And John doesn't have to look up to know just what angle Rodney's chin is tilted at; he fights the urge to roll his eyes.

Instead, John settles for curling one hand around Rodney's hip to balance by, the other so gently around his leg, then ducks his head and places open-mouthed kisses the length of Rodney's thigh. Rodney tries to jerk his leg away from John, but John presses his weight down carefully, gently, and soon Rodney stills. John runs the flat of his tongue over the scar tissue, warm and wet over dead skin, then traces the sensitive skin at the very edges with the tip of his tongue, tasting clean skin and fresh sweat, feeling the shiver and jump of the still-living muscles under his tongue.

John works his way up, so slowly, with kisses that are carefully careless, not wanting to scare Rodney, wanting to soothe him, wanting to show him how much John has wanted him during all their time apart, wanting to show him how much John still wants him. He reaches the spot where the angry red of the scar fades into the paler colour of healthy skin, just where the arch of Rodney's hipbone begins, and bites down without warning, hard enough to leave dark bruises on delicate skin. Rodney's hips jerk, and he yelps loudly, startled.

"What—"

"That," John says, before Rodney can berate him, "is for being a complete idiot."

"I—oh." Rodney stills when he looks down and sees whatever is on John's face. John isn't exactly sure himself, isn't sure he can classify what exactly he's feeling, but he knows something of what he wants to convey, and so John lowers his head again, breathing in Rodney's scent before he flicks his tongue over the head of Rodney's cock.

"John, oh," Rodney says when John stretches his mouth around him, "_John_," when John strokes two fingers carefully up behind his balls. It's been a while since John's done this, too long since he's had the weight of a cock on his tongue, since he's had a well-loved body stretched out beneath him, and he hums, contented. He wants to lose himself in this, to show Rodney how he makes John feel, how he's always made John feel, show him the absence in John's life that was only filled when he walked into a cheap hotel room a couple of hours ago and saw a man asleep on the bed.

Beneath him, Rodney's hips begin to move, a rhythm that's in careful counterpoint to John's own. John moves with it, works with it, speeds up when he feels Rodney's rhythm start to break apart, thrusts growing wilder. Rodney's almost there, _John's_ almost there, rubbing his cock against the cheap cotton sheets as he is, when John feels hands in his hair, pulling him off and away.

"Wh—what?" John says, disoriented, words slow to push past lips that are bruised, a throat that's scratchy and raw, and he wants Rodney to let go, wants to go back to sucking Rodney, to the feeling that there's nothing else in the world beyond the confines of this bed.

But "I want, I want," Rodney is saying, "I want to see you, I _need_, John," tugging at John until John crawls up his body, settling them both on their sides, careful of Rodney's injured leg.

Rodney wraps one hand around the nape of John's neck and kisses him, grinds their hips together, and says "Like this, like this, god, please—" And John is saying yes to him, yes with his words and his mouth and his hands, touching and stroking and caressing and pressing closer and closer. So close, so close, and then Rodney bites down on the tendon at John's throat and that's it, that's it, John is coming, head thrown back, back arching, like flying, like falling.

Rodney thrusts against him again, and again, and again, before he's coming too, trembling, the sticky warmth of his come mingling with John's on their bellies. For a long moment, they lie there, Rodney's face buried in John's neck, the only sound in the room their breathing. John runs the tips of his fingers up and down the length of Rodney's spine, over and over, and waits.

Eventually, Rodney stirs a little; John's hand stills. John can feel Rodney's eyelashes flutter against his neck, as if he's squeezing his eyes shut. Then, "Stay," he says, and John sucks in a breath at the uncertainty he hears in Rodney's voice, the question and the plea.

"Sure, buddy," he says, pressing a kiss to Rodney's temple. "I can do that. I can do that. I'm not going anywhere." There's no uncertainty in his voice at all.


End file.
